High life
May the best queen win
Taki
GNew York ood old Prince Philip. By pronounc- ing that wives and hookers are one and the same he said what I've been trying to tell the world about certain high-profile mar- ried New York ladies for a long time. Mind you, it works both ways. Making a big marriage applies to men also, and no one has made a bigger marriage than a certain Greek naval officer from Corfu. If the Taki theory — of judging a person by the kind of marriage they make — is correct, and I believe it to be infallible, then Prince Philip belongs right here in the Big Bagel, among the rest of the climbers and hookers of this town.
In fact, if he hurries, he could join the greatest war of succession since the Wars of the Roses. It is the scramble to succeed Brooke Astor as reigning Queen of New York, and there are five major candidates, if one doesn't include Jerry Zipkin and Alecko Papamarkou in the running. They are Ivana Trump, wife of the real estate vulgarian who also produces the Trump doll (you don't buy it, it buys you); Carolyne Roehm, a designer of clothes not even Princess Margaret or Fergie would dare wear, as well as wife of Henry Kravis, the world's most incredible shrinking man; Mercedes Bass, a Persian lady whose brand new hubby paid a record $200 million for a used Mercedes; Anne Bass, ex-wife of the profligate Texan car-buyer, and as prissy as a small-town mid-Western lass can be when thrown in among the high rollers of the Bagel; last but certainly not least, Susan Taubman and Judy Gut- freund, or better yet, Susan Gutfreund and Judy Taubman, two ladies whose careers are so similar I thought of saving some space and mentioning them from now on as one. And, of course, Prince Philip.
These ladies and, er, gentlemen, have been locked in mortal combat a long time. They fight over art objects, over designer clothes, over who will get their story to a gossip columnist first, and, needless to say, over which fashionable charity's board they will lend their name to. The war has been so relentless that there are bodies strewn all over Le Cirque and Mortimer's, not to mention the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Big Bagel Public Library, and the BB City Ballet. Bodies with names such as Gayfryd Steinberg, wife of gla- diator Saul, Ann Getty, provider of our noblest lord, George Weidenfeld, Annette Reed, constant companion of Oscar de la Renta, and Nan Kempner, whose body has been designated by the Fashion Institute of America as the one to be buried in the tomb of the unknown soldier of the war of social succession. My spies tell me that the monument will be erected on Park Ave- nue, equidistant from Le Cirque and Mor- timer's. The designer is Bill Blass, from an idea of Nancy Reagan's. Lord Linley is to reimesent the Queen. I will let all of you know when all this transpires, but it will not be until after the New Year, as there are too many parties at present for the unknown soldier to attend her own en- tombment.
Having said all this, there is a lady who just might blow everyone out of the water and take over Queen Brooke's crown before anyone has a chance to say Christ- ian Lacroix. She is Georgette Mosbacher, wife of President-elect Bush's secretary of commerce, and the one truly sexy babe among the contenders. Georgette comes from Indiana, is curvy and busty, and in my estimation could even get Zipkin and Papamarkou to like girls once and for all. So much so, in fact, that Sally Quinn, the aging blonde wife of Ben Bradlee, editor of the mendacious Washington Post, has de- cided to start a war against her for pre- emptive purposes. La Quinn knows that Barbara Bush is no Nancy Reagan, and that the American people will not put up with the hounding of a great lady and mother such as Babs, so she looked around for a replacement. Mark my words, Georgette will be the next big target, but it won't matter. All you have to do is look at Georgette and then at Quinn, and you will know that the curve is mightier than the pen any time.
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